The World As You Know It
by blaaklint
Summary: Harry is pretty sure magic does not exist, so when he is faced with a seemingly impossible murder, he must abandon his presumptions about the very nature of reality and enter into a world which he cannot comprehend. Along the way, he might even find a thing or two out about himself. AU. Squib!Harry.


_**The World As You Know It  
** by blaaklint_

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 **Hello everyone.**

 **I just thought that I ought to mention a bit about this premise. It is strongly AU – Harry is magicless, and has been ever since Voldemort tried to murder him as a child. Obviously, this has consequences: Voldemort's ascension back to human form is delayed by nearly a decade, and the accompanying problems are so far avoided – if you have any questions about differences from canon, ask.**

 **There is also no Weasley or Dumbledore bashing because I don't understand the hate. Ron is a fairly normal teenage boy and while that may very well be contempt-worthy in itself, he's not the huge retarded dickhead he's made out to be. Dumbledore's role will most likely be minimal, but hopefully realistic. He's not the Machiavellian villain, but instead the magical powerhouse who simply wants to make the world a better place.**

 **Finally, this is my first fanfic (or at least since I was thirteen, and we don't talk about that) so please review so I can improve my writing.**

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 **Chapter One:  
** The Victim

 _7:23, 28th April, 2006:_

The woman in the centre of the room was most definitely dead. The woman had been, before her rather grisly end, about fifty if Harry had to guess, with short, grey hair, which might have once been auburn and a strong jaw. Harry figured that once upon a time, she might have been rather attractive, but was now handsome rather than beautiful. Her corpse, however, was neither. It was covered in a series of deep cuts across the chest and upper arms, which were staining the once white carpet a crimson red. What appeared to be parts of her intestines were scattered around the body, as well as the mangled remains of several severed fingers. Her left leg was bent at an unnatural angle, and part of her pelvis seemed to have been caved in. The surrounding room hadn't fared much better: there were deep gouges in the walls, as well as sear marks in the plush carpet.

Harry shuddered. He had joined the Criminal Investigations Department of the Metropolitan Police (commonly known as the Met) as soon as he could. He had previously been a regular Constable in his hometown of Little Whinging, where most of his work consisted of picking up drunks causing a but of argy-bargy, and occasionally fining teenagers for smoking weed – therefore, his first murder was something of a shock. Sure, he had dealt with training exercises before but nothing could have prepared him for _this_.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, which had, as usual, refused to stay down when he had washed that morning. His bright green eyes were transfixed upon the body in all of its macabre glory, and Harry suddenly didn't feel so well.

"Need some time, lad?"

Harry started. The gruff voice of his immediate superior jolted him out of his trance.

"Nah – nah, I'm fine," Harry waved him off. "Just..." He shook his head

Ted was a large, jolly looking middle-aged man with fair hair. He had a keen wit and was always quick with a smile, which was pretty handy in situations like this, Harry reckoned. Harry had been placed under Ted's wing when he started his training to become a Detective Constable and, after him and Ted had gone out to the pub for a few drinks after a long day of practical training (seriously, why did he need warnings not to grappe with a man with a knife; Harry thought this would have been common sense), Harry realised he could not have gotten luckier.

"I know what you mean, lad – but someone's got to do it," Ted replied. "C'mon, given it's your first murder, I'll walk you through it – now, where do we start?"

"Er... personal information," Harry supplied.

"Right. So, who she was: name, date of birth, employment, all that stuff." Ted pulled a notebook and pen out of his coat pocket. "We also need to find out how she got into this..." he gestured to the room, "...mess. Eh, eyes right, Harry."

Harry looked. Approaching was a thirty-something dark-haired woman who he thought he vaguely recognised. Carrie or Cassie or something? He shook his head.

His question was swiftly answered by Ted's greeting. "'Right Charlotte?" Harry smiled; he'd been close. "Charlotte, this is Harry Potter, my new partner. Harry, this is Charlotte Finch. She works with Forensics."

Charlotte gave him a warm smile, "Call me Lottie. Apart from Ted, everyone does. Anyway, judging by the victim's state of rigor, as well as the temperature, I would estimate that time of death was between about six and eight hours ago –"

Ted looked at his watch and made a note.

"– but," now Lottie knelt down next to the corpse and gestured to some of the cuts, "this is where it gets a bit weird. See, when you die, typically your blood starts to clot pretty soon after. As I'm sure you've noticed, that doesn't seem to have happened here. That's not that weird – haemophilia and von Willebrand's disease are both fairly common – but," she gestured to another set of cuts, "here the blood has coagulated. Moving onto the cause of the cuts, well... strangely, these cuts are consistent with perhaps a long blade – we're talking less kitchen knife, more broadsword here though, so make of that what you will." Here Lottie paused for breath. "And this is all before I even get started on the _bitemarks_ on her thigh!"

"Bitemarks?" Harry asked incredulously.

" _Yes_ , bitemarks," Lottie spat out. Harry was taken aback by the strength of the pathologist's affirmation. Seeing Harry's look of surprise, she apologised,"Sorry about that – I'm a tad fraught at the moment. Probably a big cat, if you're wondering – I'll need to take a sample of the fur back to my lab to check though."

"Anything else?" asked Ted, still scribbling furiously in his notebook. "What actually killed her?"

"Well, there's the intestines she appears to have thrown up. How that could have happened, I have no idea." That this has occurred at all, Lottie seemed to have taken as a personal insult. "It shouldn't be possible; it's... it's... that just shouldn't happen. Um, let's see what else," she looked down at her own notes, "Ah, right. See the fingers?"

Harry wasn't sure he could see the fingers – they looked rather more like smudges. He nodded anyway so he could stop looking at them. He had been trying to focus on the words Lottie was saying, instead of looking at the corpse as he was beginning to feel a tad nauseous. Scratch that – Harry thought he was going to be sick. Noticing Harry's sudden paleness, Ted gestured towards the door and Harry nodded gratefully.

Ted watched him go with a thoughtful look on his face. He snapped back to attention when Lottie waved her hand in front of his face.

"Sorry? You were saying?"

Lottie rolled her eyes. "I said, 'Will he be alright?' He looks a bit peaky."

"No, Harry'll be fine – it's only his first murder, see, and I don't think this," he gestured at the body, and then the room in general, "is what he was expecting, that's all."

"It's not what I was expecting either, to be fair. Anyway, going back to your previous question, I'm not sure what killed her. Most likely it was loss of blood," Lottie shrugged, "but I'm not sure 'cause I think some of the cuts are too recent. She may not have had time to bleed out. Could've just been shock that did for her."

In the meantime, Harry had gone out to look for possible witnesses – neighbours and the like – to take his mind off the body lying in the front room of Number Fifty-Seven, Norfolk Drive. The house itself was a rather elegant Georgian townhouse made of a pleasant red brick. The house had obviously been well-maintained; the brickwork was in good condition, the door had obviously been repainted recently and the gables were conspicuously free of dirt. The front garden followed much the same pattern: the flowers were in straight rows, with no weeds to be seen. Harry smiled. His aunt, Petunia would most certainly approve.

Harry felt he had a fairly good relation with his aunt – his mother's sister – with whom he'd been sent to live with on the event of his parents' deaths in a car crash when Harry was about a year old. Petunia had often commented to him about how similar to her sister she felt he was. Petunia's husband, Vernon, was a slightly more complicated story. Vernon had never treated Harry particularly badly _per se_ , but he had never treated him well either, always seeing Harry as a burden who had been foisted on him and thus never bothered buying Harry first-hand clothes or anything beyond a book as a present (to Vernon, attempts to bolster the literacy of England's youth was a socialist plot, and every piece of writing, with the exception maybe of _The Daily Mail_ , ought to be banned). Indeed, Vernon and Petunia already a son, Dudley, about Harry's age. The two cousins actually got on fairly well, especially once Dudley realised why Harry had more friends than him – being kind and studious did help after all. After that, Dudley's academic achievement improved and Harry put on some weight from going to the local boxing club together.

There were several curious onlookers crowded outside the railings at the end of the house's front garden, curiously eyeing the police tape. Harry spent a few minutes speaking to each of them about the inhabitant of Number Fifty-Four.

Number Fifty-Four, it turned out was lived in by a woman who matched the description of the one upstairs. She had no known partner or family, although she did apparently mention a neice with some regularity. By all accounts, the woman was unfailingly polite, if a tad reserved, and would happily greet neighbours if and when she saw them. Beyond that, all the onlookers could provide was speculation – "I'd imagine director or law enforcement or something – she had that air about her" was the closest Harry got to a profession. Beyond that, he couldn't get a list of friends, or even acquaintances, or even an idea of what the woman did inher spare time. Harry did, however, get a name: Amelia Bones.

Harry returned inside to find the scene exactly as he had left it: still the gaggle of forensic scientists combing over all the surfaces, still Lottie and Ted huddled in conversation and, more importantly, still Amelia Bones lying dead on the floor.

As he sidled over to Ted and Lottie, he found they were now discussing the state of the rest of the room.

"– but, again, they are consistent with a long blade. It would have taken enormous force, though, to make these marks to the brickwork. And see the way the walls and carpet have burnt – that would take enormous heat but a very brief time. Something that hot should have at least harmed the body, but it didn't." Lottie shrugged helplessly. "I can't make sense of any of this."

Sensing Lottie couldn't seem to handle anything more, Harry interjected, "I found out a little bit about our victim. Her name's Amelia Bones, and she's something of a recluse. Kept to herself apparently, but always polite and kind. No friends or partner, but she has got a neice supposedly – albeit we don't know her nam _e_ or where she is. Ted?" Harry had noticed the slight frown on Ted's face.

"What? Oh, the name seems familiar, that's all." Ted smiled grimly. "We'll see if we can find anything out about her from the database back at Scotland Yard. "Anything else?"

Harry thought for a second. "Well, I had a look round the rest of the house before I came in here earlier and for what it's worth, nothing seems stolen. Other than that, I think we're just waiting for forensics to finish bagging everything in here to be taken down to Scotland Yard."

"We oughtta get going then, lad," said Ted.

As they were leaving, Harry heard a voice calling out his name. He turned to be met with Lottie again.

"Harry, I just remembered to tell you. There was something else weird about this one: all the doors and windows were locked _from the inside_. There's just no way anyone should have been able to get in or out. Anyway," she clapped his shoulder, "you'll do fine. You got lucky; there are very better policemen, and certainly very few better people, than Ted Tonks."

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 **So, there we have it. Updates will inevitably be slow, but please do review if you want me to answer questions, or simply just write better (constructive criticism though).**

 **Farewell and thank you for reading,**

— blaaklint


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